


the benefits to fighting an old man in an alleyway

by asbestosgang



Category: Red Letter Media, RedLetterMedia RPF, redlettermedia
Genre: Beer, Blood and Injury, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gay, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Like physical hurt, M/M, Pining, Requited Love, Violence, and some emotional hurt, hell yeah beer tag, is it fluff? comparatively maybe it's not that fluffy, knife!, not sexy at all, they are happy gay men this time
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:42:02
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22761874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asbestosgang/pseuds/asbestosgang
Summary: Mike is here for a reason. Maybe he can get it off his chest before he passes out from the blood loss.
Relationships: Mike Stoklasa/Jay Bauman, Mike/Jay
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35





	the benefits to fighting an old man in an alleyway

Mike managed to slam his palm against the door, his best equivalent to a knock. Blood smeared against the wood, and he figured he’d have to apologize for that. Too late, he noticed that he was bleeding all over the doormat, too.

He heard muffled cursing and stomping, waiting patiently as it grew louder, before Jay threw open the door in an oversized t-shirt and sleep shorts, ready to snap at whatever annoying asshole had decided to bother him at three o’fucking clock in the morning—he froze. 

“Mike?”

He smiled sheepishly; or at least he thought he did. He couldn’t really feel his face.

“What the fuck happened to you? I need to—we need to call an ambulance!” Jay panicked, and Mike reached out, grasping his shoulder with his stained red hand; partly to stop Jay, mostly to keep himself steady. The blood spilled onto Jay’s shirt, too. He owed him more than one apology.

“I’ll be alright, just lemme use your sink.”

“What? Mike, seriously, you need to get checked out!“

“Too expensive.”

“You’re kidding me.”

Jay glared at him, sharp and vindictive, and Mike knew why, because he was always doing this, always bothering him with one thing or another, and he always forgot to apologize. 

Jay let him in anyways.

“You’re a fucking disaster,” he complained, grabbing Mike’s arm—gently. “And you’re bleeding all over my damn floor.”

Mike wheezed in response, stumbling along as Jay led him to his bathroom, shoving him down onto the toilet.

“Just sit there for a minute,” he snapped, wetting a washcloth. As Mike waited, he closed his eyes, head lolling. His body felt sore and weak, his knuckles and palms scraped raw, legs and lungs burning, the cuts in his arm starting to sting, a pain he was familiar with, but had been an old memory until now. He hadn’t gotten into a proper fight in a while; he was out of practice.

“Hey! Stay awake, idiot,” Jay snapped, pressing the washcloth onto Mike’s face, wiping the blood and dirt away—and making him hyper aware of all the nicks and scratches on his skin.

“Owww...fuck,” he groaned, shying away.

“Keep still or I’ll beat you up myself,” Jay threatened, but he moved more carefully now, clearing away the blood smeared across Mike’s right arm (he’d blocked with it, which led to it getting sliced—better than his face).

“I can do it myself,” Mike started, but Jay huffed.

“Shut up. I’m only doing this so you quit bleeding everywhere.”

Mike conceded, watching Jay work with silent diligence. Now that his arm was clean, he could see all the gashes cut into it, ragged red lines. His face screwed up into a grimace, glad that he hadn’t eaten in a while. At least the bleeding seemed to have stopped, or at least slowed down, oozing lazily from the tears in his skin. That was a good sign, right? Sure.

“We should probably disinfect it...” Jay started, but he looked lost, and Mike didn’t know how to help him. 

“I’ll just...wash it,” he sighed, turning on the sink and gesturing for Mike to stand up. He did, and Jay took his arm and held it under the faucet.

“Ow. Ow. Ow.”

“It’s gonna get worse in a second,” Jay warned, grabbing a bar of soap and scrubbing it across the wounds. He tried to be gentle, Mike gave him that, but his arm felt like it was on fire, and it took all the restraint in his body to keep from yanking it away, risk of infection be damned. 

“You’re killing me here,” he groaned, and Jay frowned, rinsing the soap away.

“Sorry. Does it look clean? I can’t tell.”

“Ow. Yes? Ow,” Mike winced, cradling his burning arm.

“Okay, that’s good. You can, uh, sit back down,” he offered. Mike did, trying to avoid looking at the cuts while Jay turned away and rummaged in his cabinet for bandages. He pulled out the box, kneeling down and setting it on the toilet seat between Mike’s legs before pausing to yawn.

“By the way, it’s like 3 AM. You didn’t call 911, because you’re an idiot—I get that much—but why didn’t you just go home?”

Good question. Mike knew the real answer, of course, but he‘d swallow razor blades before he said it out loud. So he lied. 

“Your place was closer. I’m too drunk to drive very far.”

Jay sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“So you decided to bother me instead.”

Just another thing to add to the list of inconveniences he’d foisted onto Jay without any warning or excuse. Mike was always getting into trouble. Always messing up. Always dragging Jay into it, for no good reason at all.

And he always forgot to apologize.

He felt bad about it—at least he thought that’s what he was feeling. Bad. His emotions were working overtime, propelled by the liquor and adrenaline, flooding though his system and threatening to short-circuit him. His brain had been on overdrive during the fight, focused on not getting shanked, and now it had decided to throw in the towel, leaving him alone with his drunken feelings and a dangerous lack of restraint.

“I didn’t know where else to go.”

“A hospital! Please!” Jay exclaimed, starting to cover the slashes on his arm with the bandages. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing.”

“I trust you,” Mike mumbled. Jay scoffed, looking up at him. Their eyes met. Jay looked away first.

“You really shouldn’t,” he grumbled, applying a grand total of seventeen bandages to Mike’s arm.

“See? You did fine,” Mike cooed. Jay frowned at him, but there wasn’t any bite to it—it was overridden by the worry scrawled across his features. Aww. How sweet.

Or maybe that’s just the natural reaction when your friend shows up at your door in the middle of the night, bloody and disheveled. 

Figuring that was the case, Mike decided not to read too much into it.

And then Jay put his hand on Mike’s cheek, leaned in close, and stared at him for a good minute. Needless to say, the room became very hot all of a sudden.

“Hm. Your face is...not great. I don’t think you have a black eye, which is good. But you’ve got a bunch of scrapes, and there’s a cut on your lip, so don’t mess with it. Is there anywhere else you got hit?” He asked, his voice casual, like his face wasn’t one inch away from giving Mike a coronary.

“I’m—uh. I was...hit in the stomach, too. It’s not, uh, a big deal, though. Might be bruised, but that’s probably it.”

At hearing that, Jay yanked up his shirt, exposing his stomach and chest.

“Whoa! What the—hang on—“ Mike’s face caught fire, and he thanked God that Jay wasn’t looking at his expression.

“I don’t see anything yet. Does it hurt anywhere?” Jay asked, free hand tracing over Mike’s skin, exploring him under a pretense, his fingers a little cold as they danced gently across his body, making him shudder.

“Uh, n-no,” he stammered, but he didn’t know if he could feel much of anything other than Jay’s hand against his skin—it drowned out the pain, leaving Mike dizzy, his face hot and head light. Jay dropped his shirt, unconvinced.

“I’ll check again in the morning. Your shirt is a bloody mess, give it to me and I’ll wash it,” he ordered, standing up and holding out his hand. Mike obeyed, tugging it off, his face still warm.

“I’m, uh, staying here?”

“Of course you are—“ Jay paused, realizing what he was saying. “I mean, if you’re not going to call a hospital, someone should at least be around. Just in case.“

He spoke with confidence, but Mike could see the glimmer of uncertainty behind his eyes, the embarrassment over getting ahead of himself.

“No, I get it. Makes sense.”

Jay seemed to be grateful for the out, the acceptance if only for the sake of saving face. After all, it couldn’t look like Jay _wanted_ Mike to stay. He wasn’t supposed to, not really. He wasn’t allowed to, for a reason Mike didn’t understand. He just knew that Jay liked putting up walls. Little arbitrary lines he didn’t dare cross. He didn’t let Mike cross them, either, and now wasn’t really the time to start. 

So he didn’t. 

“But do you have, uh, anything for me to change into?” He asked, trying not to curl in on himself—it was starting to get chilly. Jay blinked, realizing that Mike was shirtless. His face grew red, and he coughed.

“Right, yeah. Sorry. I’ll go grab something,” he stammered, scampering out of the bathroom, leaving Mike to sit motionless on the toilet, shirtless and cold. As it should, the adrenaline had left his system—and now it was time to be miserable. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, a slow shudder rippling through him. His body felt wrecked now, limp and bruised but hopefully not broken. The slices in his arm still throbbed with pain. They would probably scar. Maybe it would make him look cool.

Jay came back into the bathroom, holding a large hoodie.

“Should fit,” he mumbled. Mike slipped it on—it did, easily. He stroked the fabric with his sore fingers. It felt oddly familiar.

“Is this...”

“...You leave a lot of stuff here.”

“Oh.”

Mike looked up at Jay, realizing that the sleep shirt he was wearing looked kind of familiar, too, minus the bloody handprint—that was new. Jay must’ve noticed the question on his face.

“I—this—it was an accident—I haven’t done my laundry in awhile. I just...needed something to sleep in.”

It was a poor excuse, and Jay knew it, because his face turned red and he refused to look at Mike, letting the both of them stew in silence. 

Jay was wearing his shirt.

 _His_. Shirt. 

To _sleep_ in.

Talk about crossing lines.

Mike didn’t mind at all. 

Jay’s refusal to make eye contact led to him noticing Mike’s hands, scraped raw and stained with drying blood.

“Shit, I forgot—give me your hands,” he ordered. Mike stood up, placing his hands under the sink faucet. Jay turned the handle, water rushing over Mike’s skin. He winced, fingers curling up. It didn’t hurt as much as his arm had, but it stung like thorns, or what he imagined grabbing barbed wire would feel like.

Jay grabbed the bar of soap, and Mike tensed up in anticipation—

“Ow. Ow. Ow.”

“Seriously? Is it as bad as your arm?” Jay asked, sarcastic doubt mixed with genuine concern.

“No, but it still hurts, asshole,” Mike grumbled. Jay rolled his eyes as he rinsed away the blood, revealing a litany of small scrapes and cuts on Mike’s hands, before turning off the faucet. 

“Sit back down and dry off your hands,” he said, tossing a washcloth at Mike. He turned away to grab more bandages, and Mike watched him, patting his tender fingers dry. Jay crouched down in front of him, holding Mike’s hands gently in his own, careful not to touch the open cuts. Mike noticed his hands were small—not small, per se. Smaller than his, but normal, and surprisingly rough, his fingers nice, as if maybe he could play piano well with them. He liked them.

He liked Jay.

If that wasn’t already glaringly obvious to everyone except the man in question. 

“You owe me for all the bandages,” Jay grumbled, but Mike could tell he wasn’t angry. His hands moved too gently.

“...what even happened?” he asked. The dreaded question.

“Just...a fight.”

“No, shit. With who?”

He should’ve prepared a response on the way over. Alas, he didn’t think that far ahead, having only stumbled upon Jay’s door in a state of dazed panic, so the only thing that fell from his lips was the truth.

“Plinkett.”

It had started pretty normally—just two drunken idiots with a tense history having a shouting match in a bar. They got kicked into an alley, where the shouting escalated to a level that frightened off the raccoons digging in the dumpster nearby (and those bastards were brave). They yelled about a lot of things in a desperate attempt to tear at each other’s pride, but it didn’t get serious until Mike brought up Jay.

“You never fucking deserved him,” he’d growled. It was an accident. He shouldn’t have said it, and he wanted to take it back, but Plinkett had already heard. 

“Yeah, maybe I didn’t. But at least I _got_ him.”

His voice was cool, casual, and it made Mike’s heart stop. He knew. Somehow, he knew. How long had he known? When had he figured it out? Now? From the beginning? Had he told Jay? Was he going to?

“I mean, look at you, you ugly motherfucker! You’re still in love with him, right? And he still hasn’t given you a second fucking thought, huh? God, you’re pathetic.”

Plinkett started talking, on a roll now, and Mike’s ego melted away as he proudly told him about all the things they’d done that Mike wished he could do—and a few even he wouldn’t try. It stung, sure, and was way too much information for anyone to be shouting in an alley; but there was nothing Mike could do. It’s not like he had any claim to Jay, any reasonable right to be upset. At least, that’s what he told himself in order to keep from curb stomping this asshole and having to deal with the legal repercussions later.

“Actually, I think it’d be better if I tell him for you!” Plinkett crowed, and that was it. Mike’s hackles raised, tense and furious, reason thrown out the window, overrun by fear and adrenaline. 

“How do you think he’ll react, knowing his fat, lazy fuck of a coworker has been desperate to pound his ass for years?! He’s such a slut, he probably would’ve done you anyways, if you just asked! Maybe he’ll even let you now! Worth a shot, right?” He laughed, his voice a high-pitched, mocking shriek. Mike stepped forward, clenching his fists.

“Don’t,” he said quietly, his throat burning with a scream he forced himself to suppress. Plinkett raised an eyebrow, a smug grin on his face.

“Do you plan on fucking stopping me?”

It was a taunt. Obviously. He was goading Mike on, and he took the bait, lunging forward to smack him across the face—

Plinkett whipped out the knife, and Mike reeled backwards, his fist nearly colliding with the blade. Plinkett swung wildly, forcing Mike back. He threw his arm up to shield his face, and felt the blade rip his skin in wild scratches. 

“Motherfucker!” Mike howled, staggering. Plinkett grinned viciously, not backing off, and Mike felt his stomach drop; he wasn’t done yet. Plinkett advanced, swinging the knife again, and Mike dodged it—but it was a feint, and he punched him in the stomach instead. Mike groaned, and Plinkett didn’t let up, slugging him in the face. He lost his balance, falling face-first onto the ground, his cheek and hands scraped up by the concrete as he tried to catch himself. He couldn’t even feel it, fury and adrenaline flooding through his system. 

It was just the damn knife. That’s the only thing that made him a threat, that damn knife.

“Come on! You fucking scared?” He crowed, and Mike grimaced, standing up, only vaguely aware of the blood dripping down his arm. Yeah, he was scared. He was terrified. Was this how he was meant to go? What if he actually died here, in a scrappy alleyway fight with an old war criminal? For what?

He never even told Jay he liked him. 

Not that that was important. He knew it wouldn’t do any good. It didn’t really matter if he did or didn’t. Nothing would change, not for the better. He probably knew the answer, anyways. 

But as he watched the blood fall from his fingertips to drip gracelessly to the ground, he decided that he wanted Jay to know. He needed Jay to know. No matter what. Which meant he absolutely could not fucking die here.

It was just a knife.

He didn’t even know how to use it.

Plinkett swung again, a sick, twisted grin on his ugly mug, distorting it even more, and Mike lunged forward, taking one more slice on the arm before snatching his wrist and twisting it until he heard a grotesque snapping noise. Plinkett shrieked, dropping the knife, and Mike took the opportunity to punch him in the eye with his good arm. 

Plinkett collapsed, letting out a horrific wail, and Mike wasn’t going to stick around to see the aftermath, so he fucking bolted to his car, mind and heart racing, arm so bloody it would’ve looked right at home in Carrie. He’d been at Jay’s door before he knew it. 

And now here he was, sitting in his best friend’s bathroom after beating up their ex-fiancé.

“Why the hell’d you pick a fight with him of all people?” Jay complained, and Mike bristled.

“For your information, dick, he started it,” he snapped, before remembering he’d come here of his own free will, and maybe he should be a little nicer because Jay could still kick him out if he wanted to.

“...yeah. I’m not surprised,” Jay admitted, seemingly unbothered by Mike’s attitude as he finished wrapping up his fingers. “You’re lucky he didn’t just fuckin’ shoot you.”

“I forgot he owned a gun, actually. He only used a knife—“

“A knife?!” Jay shouted, shocked, before pressing his palm to his forehead, his cheeks flushing. “Yeah, no, that...that explains the cuts.”

Mike laughed, and then regretted it, because his stomach felt bruised.

“What did you think happened?”

“Oh, shut up, I’m tired.”

Jay closed his eyes, sighing, and Mike let the question fall from his lips that were usually shut so tight, preventing anything important from escaping and ruining whatever it was they had.

“Did you ever love him?”

He knew he was crossing a line. A big one. But he was curious, full of that kind of burning, all-consuming curiosity, the kind that might kill him depending on the answer—though he was willing to risk it tonight. He was exhausted, running on fumes, his head a little loopy and his body sluggish. So sue him if he wanted to know. 

Silence. Jay opened his eyes.

“Harry?”

His first name. Not a good sign. Jay seemed to think about it, and the fact that he had to made Mike’s heart sink. 

“Nah.”

Jay grinned at him, smug and haughty, and Mike’s eyes widened. He paused on purpose, the little shit. 

“Jesus, Mike, you seriously thought—“

“I-I didn’t know! How am I s’posed to tell? Maybe he swept you off your fuckin’ feet,” he huffed, his face flushing, because yes, he had ‘seriously thought.’

“I can’t believe you think my standards are that low. Although I guess they’d have to be, to be in love with you.”

Jay said it so casually that for a moment Mike didn’t understand. And then he did, as Jay’s face exploded into bright red.

“What?” He asked, the only thing he was capable of saying. There was a moment of silence that seemed to drag on until time had abandoned them completely as Jay grappled with something in his own head, finally coming to a conclusion.

“Sorry. That was—it was a joke, that’s all. Didn’t land?”

When Jay finally spoke, his voice was too loud, unsure, full of false confidence, poorly masking the shame, fear, and other emotions that Mike was too exhausted to identify. He was tired of all of it, really. All of the subtext that he was never sure really existed, all of the confusion and doubt and lonely pining. This was the man Mike had liked—fuck it, loved—for years. Even now, he loved the sleep in the back of his eyes. He loved the way his hands were calloused and kind. He loved everything about him. And now he could _say_ it. He could do something about it. Mike knew now. It was finally out in the open. After all this time, Jay had finally said something Mike could understand, really understand—and he wanted to take it back? Jay wanted to bring them back to the start, to bring back all of that loneliness and doubt and regret?

No. Mike survived a knife fight to tell Jay he loved him. It didn’t matter that he was sitting in a bathroom in a borrowed shirt, dizzy from blood loss and the adrenaline of beating up an old man, covered in bandages. Because Jay had just said he was in love with him. 

If he didn’t have the balls to do anything now, then he should’ve just been stabbed.

Mike placed his messed-up hand against Jay’s cheek, leaning forward and kissing him gently. When he pulled back, Jay seemed stunned, frozen in place, his eyes wide.

“Uh,” Jay coughed, his face turning pink. “That’s. Why’d you do that?” He laughed nervously, like it might’ve been an accident. 

“Because I’m in love with you,” Mike said matter-of-factly.

“Oh. Really?” Jay asked, stunned, like it shouldn’t be the other way around, like he wasn’t the one out of Mike’s league.

“Yes, you idiot. I have been for years.”

“Wh-Why didn’t you—“

“Why didn’t you?” Mike retorted.

“I was getting married! And it was your idea!”

“...shit.”

They sat there for a moment, both blown away. Jay sighed tiredly, shaking his head as if defeated.

“Fuck it.”

Jay smashed their lips together, so rough that Mike felt the cut on his lip sting, starting to bleed again, but he didn’t give a rat’s ass because holy shit Jay was kissing him.

Jay pulled back, seeming to remember Mike was injured.

“Shit, sorry,” he muttered, wiping Mike’s blood off his lips. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m—I’m...yeah,” Mike stammered, his face on fire. Jay was staring at him, something like determination in his eyes.

“Then can I do it again?”

Mike let out a sharp, light wheeze that might be considered a laugh, astonished. 

“Yeah,” he said breathlessly, and Jay chuckled a little, leaning back in.

His lips were soft, his body warm, his rough hands trailing up Mike’s skin, careful to avoid his injured arm. Maybe this was a dream. Checking, Mike squeezed his beat-up hand to Jay’s back—the pressure stung, just a little. He smiled, pulling Jay closer, almost forgetting that they were in his bathroom (not a very romantic setting).

Jay seemed to remember, pulling back just far enough to breathe, resting his head against Mike’s shoulder. He stayed there for a minute, before Mike heard his breathing slow.

“Hey,” he said softly, nudging Jay awake.

“Oh. Sorry, I’m—do you mind if I just go to bed?” He asked, and Mike snorted.

“Course not. Can I crash on the couch?”

“Do you want to?”

“Oh. No, I can go home, it’s—“ Jay’s lip quirked, and he shook his head. Mike picked up on the point.

“Right. Yeah. Okay.”

Jay stood up, leading him to his bedroom, where Mike promptly collapsed onto the bed, the adrenaline drained away. He murmured an apology (for once), but Jay didn’t seem to mind as he settled in next to him and Mike drifted away.

He woke up in the morning to see Jay watching him, a sleepy daze in his eyes.

“H’lo,” He slurred. Jay smiled.

“Good morning. Now that you’re awake, it’s time for us to have a long, serious discussion about our emotions and our relationship going forward.”

Mike must’ve let the horror show on his face, because Jay cackled, sitting up and stroking his cheek. 

“Just kidding. How’re you feeling?”

“Like shit,” Mike complained, sitting up. His muscles were sore, and he lifted up the borrowed hoodie (well, technically it was his own) to reveal a dark purple bruise on his stomach.

“Jesus, how did I miss that?” Jay muttered, and Mike groaned, falling back against the bed.

“You sure we shouldn’t go to a professional?”

Mike nodded.

“Nah, it’s not really that bad. I’ve been in worse, and you’re better at patching me up than I am. I’ll be fine.”

“I’m trusting you on this. If you die, I’m not legally liable.”

“Oh, of course not,” Mike purred as he tugged Jay closer to him, kissing him gently. He’d always wanted to do this—kiss Jay in the morning, the sun shining through the window, still half-asleep and in love. It was better than he thought it would be.

And then it got even better when Jay straddled him, looking down at him with a fiery grin.

“You feeling fine enough for this?”

“Oh, fuck yeah,” Mike laughed, breathless. Things were turning out fucking great, actually.

He should get in knife fights more often.

**Author's Note:**

> never written a fight before. this one was fun to write but I wonder if they got a little OOC. thats on me.


End file.
